far-away cousin and close friend of Sir Watkin Wynne, whose name I
remembered to have heard on the Colonel's lips at Leek. Sir Griffith was a
brisk, apple-cheeked man of forty or thereabouts, very fluent of speech in
somewhat uncertain English, with fewer ideas in his head than there are
pips in a codlin, but what there were of them singularly clear and
precise. He reminded me of Joe Braggs, who could only whistle three tunes,
but whistled them like a lark.

Inskip brought me a rare dish of venison-pie and various other good
things, and laid out the table for me. I left Master Freake's side to eat
my supper and listen to their talk.

They made various false starts, followed by dead silences. It was clean
useless for Sir James to talk about his baby. Sir Griffith had had a long
family and so had exhausted the topic years ago, whilst Master Freake, a
bachelor, knew nothing about it. There had been a great flood in the
Welshman's valley in the autumn and he harangued upon it in style, and not
without gleams of native poetry, but Sir James had never seen a flood and
Master Freake had never been to Wales, so the flood soon dried up.

There was a silence for some minutes, busy minutes for me with an apple
tart that was sublime with some cream to it, and I was settling down to
the sweet content of the well-fed when Sir James broke out.

"Mr. Wheatman has brought me an invitation, hardly to be distinguished
from a command, to meet His Royal Highness at the Poles' place tomorrow."

The eager Welshman bounced on to his feet, raised his glass and said, "To
the Prince, God bless him." Sir James had to follow his example, though he
was in no mood for it, and it would have looked ill had I not joined in,